


Taste in Men

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, brief Tommy/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Adam's going to mother-hen him over this, he's going to need a fucking drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste in Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etharei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/gifts).



Tommy wakes with a jolt and somebody's elbow digging into his ribs. Heart pounding, head fuzzy, he stares into the darkness of what definitely isn't his room at home, or his bunk on the bus, or some fancy foreign hotel.

"Hey," says the guy who owns the elbow currently trying to drill for oil through Tommy's sternum, "c'mon, get up."

"What," Tommy grunts, _the fuck_ lost in a startled huff as his sweaty, smoke-laden shirt lands on his face. He paws it off and sits up, hunching over as his head throbs. "Jesus."

"Sorry," the guy says. He doesn't sound sorry at all. "You gotta go."

"Fuck, man." Wincing, Tommy makes it to the edge of the bed, then pauses to catch his breath. His boots thud somewhere near the door. "You seriously kicking me out?"

"Yeah, uh." The guy--Gary, Gare, fucking something--runs a hand back over his short hair. "Listen, it was fun. You were great. Really great. But you gotta fucking go, 'cause my boyfriend's gonna be home soon."

Halfway to his feet, Tommy stops, sways, and grabs for the nightstand. "Jesus Christ, your fucking _boyfriend_?" He grabs at his jeans and hauls them on, saying fuck it to his shorts and zipping up with a couple fingers jammed between cold metal and his junk. Grabbing up his shirt, he tugs it on, retrieving his boots from the floor and his jacket from the hall. He's way too drunk for this shit. And _sore_ , holy fuck, he hadn't expected that. Tender maybe, but they hadn't gone at it that fucking hard.

"C'mon," says the guy, hustling him out the door while he's struggling to get his second boot on. "Call a cab from the corner, okay?"

"Jesus, be more of a fucking asshole, I fucking dare you," Tommy snaps, jamming his elbow against the door to keep the guy from slamming it in his face. "I dropped my fucking phone."

"Here," the guy says, scooping it up and shoving it at him. "Look, I'm sorry, just. 'Bye." Another shove, this time the flat of his hand into Tommy's chest, and the door bangs shut.

"Fuck you," Tommy says, flipping off the peephole. "Christ, I hope your boyfriend dropkicks your ass." He thumps his fist against the door. "Hey! Where the fuck am I?"

Nothing. Spitting a curse, Tommy punches the door one last time before he stumps down the stairs to the street. His head is killing him, which is totally not fair while he's still buzzed. And fucking _seriously_ , what the fuck is this shit? The one time he figures okay, why not, and goes with the gay hookup, he gets a total two-timing douchebag kicking him out in the middle of the night. It wasn't fucking stars aligning and whole constellations singing or anything, but it was pretty good. He's almost sure it was pretty good. He got off, anyway.

"Asshole," he mutters, squinting up at the cross-street as his thumb hovers over the number to a taxi company. Blinking blearily, he turns around to figure out what street he's standing on, and huh. Go fucking figure. Scrolling up past the taxi's number, he hits Adam's.

It only takes three rings for Adam to answer, sleep-gruff and rusty. "Tommy Joe?"

"Oh fuck, man," Tommy says, feeling instantly like total shit. "I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

"No, hang on." There's a heavy sigh, then a rustle of cotton. "Shit, it's late. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, no, it's okay. Seriously. I was gonna call a cab, hit your number by accident."

"You're a shit liar," Adam says. The click of a lamp flicking on echoes across the line. "Where are you?"

"Uh." Tommy squints at the street names again. "Are you gonna send a car or something? 'Cause I'm not that drunk, honest. You're like right next to the taxi in my phone."

"Directions, Tommy," Adam says, and Tommy's shoulders slump. He rattles off where he is, a promise to stay put, and plunks his butt in the scraggly desert grass at the curb. He's way too beat to stand up and wait, but fuck, his ass really aches. Maybe that guy hadn't gone as easy on him as he'd thought.

It doesn't take long, ten minutes, fifteen at the most, for a pair of headlights to turn the corner and slow down. Stumbling to his feet, Tommy waves at the car and hopes it's his ride. Not that he's too worried about flagging down strange cars in this neighbourhood. He really wants to get out of these clothes. His jeans are slimy, clinging to the lube smeared between his legs. It's fucking gross.

"Aw, fuck," he mutters as Adam's Mustang pulls up to the curb. The door pops open, revealing Adam stretched out across the seat in the soft glow of the overhead light. "Fuck, Adam, now I feel like a complete asshole."

"Your problem, not mine," Adam says cheerily, sleep-creases marring his face and his hair sticking out in fifteen thousand crazy directions. He's in his lounging around at midnight clothes, an old worn shirt and sweats with baggy knees. "Get in, drunkard."

"Fuck," Tommy repeats, but he drops into the car, karma literally biting him in the ass as pain shoots up his spine. "Mother _fucker_."

Adam cocks a brow but doesn't ask. Quickly buckling up, Tommy sinks gingerly into the warm seat, not relaxed exactly but not as tense, either. He's never actually gotten thrown out of somebody's bed before. It's not fucking nice.

"Anytime you're ready, Tommy Joe," Adam says, pulling out into the empty street.

"Could we like, not?" Tommy tries.

"You know I'd normally say yes." Adam flicks a glance in the rearview, then at Tommy's face, his eyes pinched at the corners and his mouth tight. "But you look like shit, and you smell like something I should be worried about."

"Jesus, no," Tommy says in a rush. "Fuck, no, nothing like that. Jesus." Dragging a hand through his hair, Tommy snags a tangle, grunting in disgust when it turns out to be dried come. He scrubs his hand off on his jeans, figuring he might as well 'fess up before Adam drags it out of him. "Fucker kicked me out."

Adam's expression softens. "Oh, baby."

Slumping sideways in an effort to get more comfortable, Tommy rolls his eyes and says, "It's not that bad. Casual was the thing, right? No strings hookup." Expecting some common fucking decency isn't too much to ask, though. How big of a dick does a guy have to be to nail a self-confessed anal virgin, and then kick him the hell out? Maybe Tommy should've kept the first-time shit out of it. But he hadn't _planned_ on it spilling out in the middle of the fuck like that. Like, the guy's cock was right fucking there, about to shove into his ass huge and seriously kinda scary, and bam, he said it. He knows what the hell _he'd_ do if his hookup screamed virgin, and it sure as fuck isn't shrug, say they're loose enough and go for it anyway.

Okay. So maybe he didn't have that good a time after all.

Sunk into the comfort of Adam's car and his own thoughts, Tommy doesn't notice where they're headed until they turn a corner and Adam's hitting the button for the gate. He scrubs both hands over his face, heaving another sigh. This night is so not going his way. "Guess I can't get you to bring me to my place instead?"

"Nope," Adam says, putting the car in park outside the garage and killing the engine. He climbs out, ducking down to give Tommy an expectant look through the open door. "I'll carry you if I have to."

And shit, Adam _would_. Muttering a curse, Tommy tugs off his seatbelt and clambers out, another ache flaring in his side, a sharp twinge in his thigh. What the fuck did that guy _do_ to him?

"Nothing nice," Adam says darkly, slamming the door to come around and stopping short like he wants to gather Tommy into a hug but he's afraid of triggering something else. "Come on," he says, holding out a hand, stubbornly keeping it there until Tommy grudgingly takes it, lets himself be led up to the front door and inside. "You probably already drank enough to sink fucking Atlantis, but I'll get you another whiskey if you want."

"No, s'okay," Tommy says, blinking against the light left burning in the front hall. He shrugs out of his jacket, Adam taking over halfway through to tug off the sleeves. "Maybe."

"After you get in the bath," Adam says, offering an arm for support as Tommy tugs at his boots. "And you make sure you're alright."

Tommy flings up both hands, total white flag. "Okay, okay. Fuck. Jesus, fucking hug me already."

"Oh thank god," Adam says, gathering him up in a gentler version of the usual whirlwind crush. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Despite current evidence to the contrary," Tommy mumbles into Adam's chest, "I can take care of myself."

Adam snorts a laugh and holds on a fraction tighter. "Let me get you cleaned up and into bed, and you can take care of yourself tomorrow."

Lifting his arms for Adam to strip off his shirt, Tommy says, "Knock yourself out."

It isn't until Tommy's shirt is dangling limply from Adam's hand and Adam's grin has faded to an afterimage smear that Tommy figures out maybe that wasn't such a good idea. He's not marked all to shit or anything, but it's obvious somebody's had their hands all over him. Rubbing at the sudden rush of goosebumps prickling along his arm, he says, "This got awkward."

After a beat, Adam tosses aside Tommy's shirt. "Not yet it hasn't. Turn around."

"Oh man," Tommy says, and shuffles around, shivering as Adam's hands trail down his shoulders, find the few aches that haven't made themselves known yet. He really should've kept his fucking clothes on. It didn't get rough, exactly. More like enthusiastic. "I'm okay, alright?"

When Adam says, "I believe you," Tommy's not sure he buys it, but what the fuck ever. So his drunken hookup included a lot of banging into walls and shit. It's not like he got kicked around. "I gotta go run the bath. You want to get that drink?"

"Fuck yes." If Adam's going to mother-hen him over this, he's going to need a fucking drink. "Meet you upstairs."

Gathering up Tommy's shirt like he wants to burn it, Adam nods. Tommy heads for the wet bar straight off, grabbing a tumbler off the shelf and some ice from the minifridge. He downs a good few mouthfuls before the water cranks on upstairs, and then he takes a couple more. Coughing through the burn in his throat, he pours up another drink, sipping it this time around. When that one's gone, he considers taking the bottle up with him but ends up leaving both it and his glass behind. The buzz he'd been working before Adam picked him up has kicked back in, maybe ratcheted up a couple notches. He's good now.

The bathroom is muggy, the air smelling of fresh hot water and something herbal. Adam's perched on the broad tiled edge of the jacuzzi tub, swirling his hand through the glisten of oil on the water's surface.

"Don't need to fill it up all the way," Tommy says, thumbs hooked in the back pockets of his jeans.

"You need to get clean," Adam insists, his no-nonsense, no-arguments-with-me tone. "And since you're still drunk, I'm not leaving you in here alone. I'll go wait while you strip down and check yourself out if you want."

"While what?" Tommy flicks a glance at the mirror. Sizing up that guy's handiwork doesn't really sound like an awesome time he wants to have.

Reaching over to shut off the water, Adam stands up. "I shouldn't have let you get your own drink, should I?"

"Probably not," Tommy concedes. And maybe he should've toted that bottle of booze up here after all. "You mean like, my ass?"

"And your head," Adam mutters, scowling at the water as he dumps in another capful of oil. "Yeah, your ass, Tommy. You're probably fine, but do me a favour and make sure, okay? I'm not really convinced a guy that kicked you out took his time with you."

"Aw, fuck," Tommy says with a wince. This is the last fucking conversation he wants to have. And with _Adam_ , Christ. The whole fucking world knows exactly how Adam's first time went, and for what's missing in details Tommy's brain is happy to provide broad-spectrum guesses. So his could've gone better. No big deal.

"You're going to look, right?" Adam says, big-brother loom taking up all the space in his fucking football field of a bathroom.

"Yeah, fuck, I'm gonna look, Jesus. Would you give me some fucking privacy?"

Cussing never leaves much of an impression on Adam. He grunts, "Alright," and moves to the door, his back turned. "Tell me when you're getting in."

"This is fucking crazy," Tommy mutters, but he unzips his jeans, wiggles them down over his hips and leaves them in a heap on the floor. Holding onto the counter with one hand, Tommy reaches back between his legs, wrinkling his nose as he hits tacky lube and sore, swollen flesh. The ache spikes to a sting when he presses a bit, so he quickly runs some tap water over his fingers, rewets the lube. "I'm fine," he says after sucking in a hissing breath. Raw, but fine.

"You're sure?"

"Fuck, yes, I'm sure. What the fuck is up with you?"

"My best friend decided to have his first gay hookup with an anonymous douchebag," Adam snaps, his shoulders bunched up in a tight, unhappy line. "Get in the fucking bath."

"I didn't go out fucking looking for it!" Before Adam's voice goes up another octave, Tommy sticks his foot in the water, making lots of noise climbing in so Adam doesn't have a reason to bitch him out for being slow about it or something. The water's a few steps below scalding, pinking his skin right off the bat, and absolutely fucking perfect. He sinks down to his chin with a sigh, his breath rippling the surface. "'Kay."

When Adam turns around, Tommy expects him to settle on the counter somewhere, the closed toilet lid, hell, maybe even the giant fluffy towel waiting on the floor beside the bath. But when Adam said he was going get Tommy clean, he fucking meant it. He takes his place back on the edge of the tub, plunking a weirdly jelly-like, opaque bar of soap and a natural sponge near Tommy's head. "For when you're ready."

The bits of Tommy's hair touching the water clump together darkly. "Thanks."

Heaving a sigh, Adam drags one leg up onto the tub's edge, propping his elbow on his knee and scrubbing a hand back through his hair. He opens his mouth, closes it again, huffs out another breath.

"Dude, you are so bent out of shape over this." Lifting a hand out of the water, Tommy shoves at his arm. "Seriously. Sorry I like, drunk-dialled you."

Adam's quick to say, "I'm not." He forces a smile, flicking his fingers in the water, droplets landing on Tommy's nose. "First times are weird. It helps, having somebody."

Tommy's pretty sure that's Adam's experience talking, and that he'd be doing fine on his own, but who knows. Maybe without Adam he'd be on a street corner somewhere stumbling around in a shell-shocked daze with lube leaking out of his ass. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he should've fucking thought about what he was getting into when that guy stuffed a hand down the back of his jeans. His usual thing is go with the flow. Fuck, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Whatever awkwardness Tommy had felt down in the foyer has slipped free in the heat and crept under Adam's skin. He's fidgety like he never is, wavering before he picks up the sponge, rinsing it out. A good soak in the tub Tommy understands, but this obsession Adam's suddenly got with bathing makes the sort of sense he doesn't want to think about too hard. It's easier to turn carefully around, offer his back in response to the question lurking in Adam's eyes.

As Adam soaps up the sponge, strokes it gently across Tommy bare shoulders, and despite Tommy's best intentions, he ends up thinking about how this is one of those things they're maybe not supposed to do. But Jesus, come on--Adam's seen him at his absolute worst, heartsick and broken, and compared to that, sitting naked in Adam's fuck-off giant bathtub getting his back scrubbed is nothing. Then Adam goes and says, "I wish you would've told me," and _wham_ , there it fucking is. Now it's something.

Either the heat of the water, or the booze in his blood, or Adam's easy touch has loosened Tommy's tongue, because he doesn't think twice about admitting, "Thought about it," because he has. A lot. Along with all the reasons why not. He loves what he and Adam have. Throwing bi-curious experimentation into the mix never seemed like such a hot idea. "What would've you done, sucked my dick for me? 'Course I'm gonna like that. It's my cock in your mouth."

"You didn't have to go all fucking pornographic on me," Adam says sourly, dunking the sponge and bringing it up to let water seep through Tommy's hair, sluice over his skin.

"What I'm fucking _saying_ ," Tommy stresses, shaking wet hair back out of his eyes, "and what I've been fucking saying, is I didn't plan on it, okay? It happened. He wasn't like the assfucking messiah or some shit, but I'm not traumatised either. _Jesus_ , Adam."

The soft thud of Adam hitting his knees knocks Tommy out of the pretty fucking impressive rant he's gearing up to. He twists around, but Adam says, "No, lean back," with a hand splayed out on his chest pulling him to the edge of the tub. He grabs at the shelf under the water as Adam's other arm comes around to re-soap the sponge, and then it's dragging across his chest, slippery and scratchy all at once, dipping below the water line as Adam says, close to his ear, "I would've done it right."

Water goes splashing over the tile as Tommy struggles to sit up. He's loose and floaty, though, and it doesn't work so well, especially when Adam drops the sponge to hold him up, skin to skin. "I'm okay," Tommy blurts, arm hooked awkwardly over the rim. "Fine, m'fine."

"You're drunk," Adam says, fumbling for the sponge, and Tommy nods, his whole world swimming like the oil caught on the water's surface.

"Oh fuck, this is a really bad idea," Tommy says, not at all sure why anymore as he grabs at Adam's arm, lets it slip straight through his fingers and watches it disappear into the water. His brain chugs along trying to connect the hand sliding down over his belly, the scratchy-soft sponge rubbing against his dick, to Adam. He groans, his head falling back, and Adam is right fucking there. "Christ, fuck, wait."

The muscles in Adam's arm go lax, only the weight of his hand holding the sponge underwater. Tommy swallows hard, his thickening cock brushing Adam's wrist as the water rocks and settles. "I'm sorry," Adam says, his forehead pressed to Tommy's wet hair. "I'm so fucking sorry, but he's all over you and it's fucking killing me."

It takes a couple of tries, but Tommy squeezes out, "He was just some guy."

"Yeah," Adam says, soft and dangerous, "and I want to go back there and punch every last one of his fucking teeth out of his worthless head. He didn't fucking deserve what you gave him. I want him off you."

"Fuck," Tommy says, grabbing at the tub again to keep from slipping under as a dizzying rush of heat slams into him, "tell me how you really fucking feel about it."

Adam chokes out a laugh as strained as the hold on himself he's managed to regain. "So not the time," he says, shakily dragging his arm from Tommy's loose grasp. "I'll get you some clothes."

"No, fuck, hang on," Tommy says, scrabbling for Adam's hand, cursing on the oil as Adam's fingers nearly slip through his. "I didn't mean stop. Just like, give me a fucking second here."

If Tommy were going to lay money down, he'd figure on fifty-fifty chances for this going either way. Adam's got a romantic, noble streak a mile fucking wide, but he's never backed down from what he's really wanted, never given up. It's not dollars and cents he's gambling with but their lives, _them_. And they're good together. So fucking good.

Scrubbing soapy water off his lips, Tommy swallows another breath, says, "Keep going."

All that banked heat in Adam's eyes comes roiling up, gorgeous and searing. Tommy loses the scrape of air he gained on a short, sharp noise, expecting but not really ready for Adam to let go of the sponge and take hold of his cock instead, the water making his grip stutter. "Up," Adam says, desperate-harsh and urging him onto his knees, a splash and then the softer patter of water droplets echoing off the tile. His grip slips away, comes back soap-slick, strong, and Tommy groans, arching into it.

"Fuck," Tommy says, because having Adam's hands on him is exactly like what he thought it'd be, and nothing the same at all. It's like there's a current sparking between them, like he's got a fucking plasma globe in his chest instead of a heart and everywhere Adam touches him, bolts of electricity scorch along his nerves. He's fucking drunk, not high, but that's what it feels like, whole months of Adam's mouth on his, of Adam's hands on him, spiralling down to charge here and now. Staring down his body to where Adam's jacking him doesn't even seem fucking real, yet there it is, soapsuds clinging to Adam's fingers, the hopscotch scatter of freckles on Adam's skin, the shiny wet glint of black polish on his nails.

Tommy waits for the churning in his belly to turn frantic. His pulse spikes as Adam presses a lingering kiss to his neck, the other hand on his hip guiding him to match Adam's rhythm, fuck Adam's fist. But it stays languid and all the more shocking for it, his mouth falling open on a shallow gasp as Adam works him to the edge of coming, holds him there until he's aching, both arms above his head clutching at the back of Adam's damp shirt. When Adam finally nudges him over, it's a swift tightening in his belly followed by a syrup-sweet tumble as thick as molasses, long and lingering and like nothing he's ever had before, fucking endless. He barely even notices sinking back into the water, his body gone heavy, useless.

"Baby," Adam says, cupping his hands in the water and bringing it up over Tommy's chest, chasing away the goosebumps prickling all along Tommy's skin. The easiest thing Tommy's ever done in his life is tilt his head back then, lips parted for a kiss. When Adam hesitates, Tommy leans up to take his mouth, so far from fucking around. They've gone and made what's between them real, and he's not going to back down, not now, not ever. Adam had better be fucking ready, and he'd better fucking mean it.

Breaking away, Adam says, "C'mon, out," an urgency to his voice that wasn't in his touch, and Tommy grins, lets Adam half-help, half-haul him out of the bathtub. His feet touch down on the wide cotton bathmat and Adam scoops up the towel, shakes it out around his shoulders to bundle him in a blanket of warmth.

Tommy curls in against Adam's chest, his wet hair soaking Adam's shirt as Adam's hands rub briskly down his back. "This is so fucking awesome," he says. Like fucking light years above kicked out on his abused ass in the dark. "Gonna carry me to bed?"

"I was going to get you something to sleep in while you dried off," Adam says, and then Tommy has to cuddle in closer, lean up to kiss him again. Adam doesn't bother with much in the way of sleep clothes, but they've slept shared a bed often enough that he knows Tommy gets chill if he's not wearing anything. Exactly how they ended up half-naked in bed together that first time months ago is nothing but a blur in Tommy's memory.

"Don't need to dry off," Tommy says, the alcohol and post-coital buzz humming through his veins dragging him steadily down, turning him to a sluggish burr clinging to Adam's heat.

"Tommy," Adam says, tilting his chin up, asking him to pay attention. "We've got to talk when you're awake and sober. You probably shouldn't have let me, I shouldn't have done that while you're like this."

The effort it takes to straighten up, stand on his own, doesn't seem worth it at first. "Should've let you get away with it fucking months ago, you mean. Should've _asked_ you for it."

"Don't," Adam starts, and stops, takes a deep breath before he goes on. "Say that to me in the morning, okay? Just like that."

"I'll say it as many times as you fucking want," Tommy promises, "as many fucking ways as you want, as long as you plan on dragging me over to that great big fucking bed of yours and cuddling me to sleep."

Brushing wet strands back from Tommy's face, Adam says, "Okay," then again, softer, like he believes it this time, as he pulls the towel up to press excess water from Tommy's hair. "But you're not going to bed wet."

"Whatever, princess," Tommy says, and leans into Adam's bulk, lets Adam do anything he wants.


End file.
